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thisotherbookaccount 's review for:
The Woman in the Dunes
by Kōbō Abe
The Woman in the Dunes by Kobo Abe reminds me of Darren Aronofsky's latest film, mother! Both are artistic creations about a thing rather than a particular narrative. That is to say, both works are supposed to represent things that are incongruent to what you see on screen. A man is not just a man, a woman is not just a woman, a house is not just a house, etc — you get the idea.
The problem with works like these is that once you figure out what the different elements are supposed to represent, then there really isn't anything else for you to chew on. Early on in this book, I figured that the sand is supposed to represent time; the way time builds up and erodes everything; how you can never keep time at bay no matter how hard you try. Time is the great equaliser in nature, clearing away both the good and the bad. Time rules all.
You can also interpret the sand — or the sand dunes in particular — as pressures from others. Especially in a country like Japan, people have many different expectations of the roles you need to play to function as an individual in the society. And expectations can come in many forms, from that of a husband to that of an employee, etc. The dunes, then, represent these roles that we have to play, and there is no escaping no matter how hard you try. The protagonist's acceptance of his place in the village is also indicative of the dunes' symbolism as societal roles we all have to play.
With that said, once you have all of those figured out, and it is not hard to do so early on in the book, the rest of the book involves the characters going through the motion. Even though it is a relatively short book, it still took me quite some time to finish, especially when the centre portion of the book started to drag its feet. And just like how many Japanese authors — or books translated from Japanese — have this stiff, stilted way of writing, that is the case for The Woman in the Dunes also. The result is a narrative that never quite comes alive on the pages. None of the thrills and horrors jump out from the book, and the reader, or maybe it's just me, never truly feel involved with the story. You are just spectators, watching something happening from a distance.
Which sort of defeats the point of a book altogether.
The problem with works like these is that once you figure out what the different elements are supposed to represent, then there really isn't anything else for you to chew on. Early on in this book, I figured that the sand is supposed to represent time; the way time builds up and erodes everything; how you can never keep time at bay no matter how hard you try. Time is the great equaliser in nature, clearing away both the good and the bad. Time rules all.
You can also interpret the sand — or the sand dunes in particular — as pressures from others. Especially in a country like Japan, people have many different expectations of the roles you need to play to function as an individual in the society. And expectations can come in many forms, from that of a husband to that of an employee, etc. The dunes, then, represent these roles that we have to play, and there is no escaping no matter how hard you try. The protagonist's acceptance of his place in the village is also indicative of the dunes' symbolism as societal roles we all have to play.
With that said, once you have all of those figured out, and it is not hard to do so early on in the book, the rest of the book involves the characters going through the motion. Even though it is a relatively short book, it still took me quite some time to finish, especially when the centre portion of the book started to drag its feet. And just like how many Japanese authors — or books translated from Japanese — have this stiff, stilted way of writing, that is the case for The Woman in the Dunes also. The result is a narrative that never quite comes alive on the pages. None of the thrills and horrors jump out from the book, and the reader, or maybe it's just me, never truly feel involved with the story. You are just spectators, watching something happening from a distance.
Which sort of defeats the point of a book altogether.